An Officer and A Gentleman
by englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: Post-TAB: Valentine's morning sees John Watson standing on the doorstep of 221B, his life having taken a turn for the worse. Sherlock Holmes wants nothing more than to restore a sense of belonging for his best friend. Over the course of the next year, our boys will rebuild their home, and finally find one another in the process. (There will be 12 chapters, Johnlock smut will occur)
1. February

John Watson was a romantic. That made this moment standing on the doorstep to 221B Baker Street, worn chestnut-leather traveling case in hand, all the more painful. Valentine's Day. A day he thought he would never have to spend alone again. _Fool_ , he now thought to himself. _Pathetic, romantic, desperate fool_.

Christmas had brought resigned reconciliation with his wife. New Years, the joy and despair of regaining his best friend, only to find that he had been using all along. Then there had been The Moment of Truth. _Sherlock's right, Watson, you really must work on these titles_ , he said to himself with a grim, humorless laugh.

Yes, Moriarty was dead. And yes, Moriarty was back. And he should have known ( _how had they not known?_ ) who was responsible for that. Once it came out, he knew she was not his wife. No priest, no official document, no ceremony before friends and family could change the reality in his heart. Unfortunately, one very simple document could change the reality of his impending fatherhood. Like Sherlock's Mind Palace, this bit of magic was not what it seemed. The child was not a Watson. And as of early this morning, after signing one more official document, neither was Mary.

John dragged himself back to the task at hand. He had come around yesterday to ask Sherlock whether he might move back into their old flat. When he arrived, he found the place empty of its sole inhabitant. He didn't understand how it could feel so much like home after everything that had passed, until he realized what he had done. Without thinking, without considering his movements, he had stepped into the center of room and sat down. In his chair.

* * *

Having decided on the fifteenth stair up not to knock first, John reached out for the knob just as the door to the flat swung open, and a six-foot tall coat careened onto the landing, nearly knocking him flat.

"Jesus, Sherlock," came the winded exclamation as he tried to catch his breath.

"John! Oh!" Sherlock replied, backing through the doorway into the sitting room to make way for his prodigal flatmate. He began hanging his scarf and Belstaff back on the hook. "I wasn't expecting you for another 3 hours 27 minutes." John looked briefly puzzled, then shook his head with an expression of _don't tell me, I really don't want to know_ and placed his bag down behind his chair.

They stared at each other uncertainly for almost a full minute before John spoke. "You were expecting me then." He squared his chest and shoulders at Sherlock, raising his chin slightly. _Whenever you feel vulnerable, unsure of yourself or your decisions, you revert to a military stance._ Sherlock knew better than to give voice to this thought, but he could not help addressing it to John in his mind. John. John was home.

"Yes, of course," came the clipped retort. Another long moment of uncomfortable silence. He couldn't have it this way. John, _his John_ , had finally returned, and this time he needed his friend to stay. Sherlock sprang into the kitchen without warning, clattering in the cupboards and shouting, "Tea?" over his shoulder.

Exhausted already despite the early hour, John simply nodded and retired into his chair by the cold fireplace. Sherlock was obviously trying to make up for the revelation on the plane six weeks ago, but it wouldn't be that easy. John had lost him three times already – he didn't think his heart could stand one more.

Sherlock set the tea down on the table at John's elbow and sat stiffly in his own chair. _Please, John. Please forgive me. Please let me try. Please stay._

John let out a weary sigh, ran a slowly warming hand over his face, and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Show me."

"John, I don't know what you – "

"SHERLOCK. Show. Me." The detective slid the jacket from his shoulders and rolled up his sleeves, one at a time, to uncover fading track marks. John looked over the exposed skin, the right side of his face twitching slightly. "When was the last time?" he demanded, his tone suddenly angry.

"Doctor Watson, I can assure you that I have – "

"Dammit, Sherlock!" John took a gamble, "Do you want me to move back in or not?"

"Y-yes, John." The look of fear in the other man's eyes confirmed what John had suspected. Sherlock had never considered finding another flatmate, Mrs. Hudson told him as much. He had withdrawn from the few friends he did have, and he seemed to spend increasing amounts of time without speaking a word. He was lonely without John, and though the doctor felt guilty exploiting his flatmate's rare show of emotion, he hoped he could use it to keep the younger man clean. _Alive_ , he thought with a shiver.

"When?"

"Two days before we… found out. About… her." John inhaled and tried to push his rising resentment away. It was no use at the moment.

"Right, well. Good. Ok. And what do you have in the flat?"

"Nothing, John."

"Sherlock, I mean it, I'm not going to have – "

"NOTHING. John." He swallowed. "Will that be all for today?"

John looked him in the eye, took a deep breath, and nodded.

Sherlock clenched his jaw, fighting the tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He would do anything to keep John this time. Anything. He stood abruptly, shoving down his shirtsleeves and replacing his jacket. He moved swiftly to the door, flinging on his coat and scarf, and snapped, "Don't wait up," before slamming the door behind him.

* * *

The flames burned low in the fireplace when Sherlock returned home. His hands clenched and unclenched nervously in his pockets as he listened for any sign of his flatmate, but the only noise came from the crackling of the wood. Having hung his coat and scarf carefully so as not to disturb John's jacket on the next hook, he surveyed the room, his eyes gradually adjusting to the dim light.

There he was, curled into a ball on the sofa, Union Jack pillow beneath his greying-blonde head. Even in sleep he looked tense, his expression worried and jaw tight. _You're not ready to sleep up there yet, are you? Captain Watson, unwilling to concede defeat. Or afraid you can never go home again?_ This last thought tore at Sherlock's already heavy heart. For him, it had become a home only twelve hours ago. He would find a way, he would do everything in his power, to give that back to the bravest, most deserving man he had ever known.

Sherlock drew a blanket over John's sleeping form, watching him relax ever so slightly beneath its weight. Moving silently to his own chair, he sat, tending the flame and counting down the hours until sunrise.


	2. March

For the last several weeks, Sherlock had submitted to routine checks of his veins and vitals twice a day, or more if he left the flat, skipped a meal, overslept, underslept, or engaged in any other behavior that Dr. John H. Watson deemed suspicious. At first John was hyper-anxious, worried each morning upon waking that today would be the day Sherlock refused to comply with his exam, blood test, interrogation.

 _Or worse_ , he thought _._ It would be the day he found what was he was searching for, because his flatmate wouldn't bother concealing it. When that day came, he would have no choice but to… _what, exactly? Move out? Force Sherlock into rehab? What can I really do about it?_ He pushed those questions away. That was a problem for another day. _One that will hopefully never come._

After a month of his constant vigilance, John began to relax a bit. Despite what felt like endless nagging, Sherlock had acquiesced calmly to each and every one of his doctor's requests. Sitting in his chair with the morning paper spread before him, tea and toast at the ready, it struck him that he didn't particularly mind watching after his friend this way. In truth, he rather liked it.

 _That was going a bit far._ It wasn't that he enjoyed feeling needed, he reflected, as he got plenty of that from his work at the clinic. It was something to do with Sherlock himself. The madman needed to be watched over, but more than that, he needed to be genuinely cared for. During his time with Mary – John flexed his fingers to fight the tremor in his hand – during his time with her, no one had been there for the crazy consultant, and to his embarrassment, he felt a small sense of relief. _But since it couldn't be me, someone else should have stepped up. If someone else had taken care of him, I would have been…_

John shut his eyes tightly against his unexpected reaction. _Jealous. I'd have been jealous. Well, that's a bit not good, eh Watson?_

* * *

At the sound of Sherlock entering the room, John coughed loudly, afraid for a moment that his flatmate could somehow hear his thoughts. Showing no signs of mind-reading ( _Good. Right. Good._ ), the lanky detective collected his laptop – he had taken to using his own whenever John was around – and dropped into his leather chair.

John glanced at his friend over the top of his newspaper. Dress trousers, no socks. He had slept some, then. Button-down with sleeves rolled to the elbow. He smiled – Sherlock had taken to exposing his arms as often as possible when the two of them were in the flat. It seemed as though he wanted to prove to John that he could change, that he was done with that. _Please. Please, Sherlock. For me._

"Sleep then?"

"Four hours," came the distracted reply. "Tedious, of course, but – " he looked up at John and his expression changed to one of resolve and… _sadness?_ He swallowed. "Four hours."

Sherlock searched his friend's deep blue eyes. He believed him. Maybe soon it would be ok again. _Maybe you'll come back to me._ He quickly dropped his eyes back to the laptop screen until that thought passed. He needed to get ahold of himself. He missed his flatmate, his friend. That was all. This constant expression of sentiment was frankly overwhelming, and he simply wasn't accustomed to it. But it seemed to help John trust him. _It's worth it, for you._

Coughing loudly, suddenly afraid his surprisingly observant flatmate could hear his thoughts, he snapped the laptop shut and replaced it on the table.

"Plans?"

"Nope."

Sherlock scanned the room, began walking toward his microscope on the kitchen table, then turned abruptly and crouched by the mantle.

"Sherlock, the thaw's come. We won't even need the heater on by lunch," John stated, a bit puzzled. He hadn't seen Sherlock build a fire before. Ever.

"Never used it while you were away. I think I may have missed watching the flames." Without meeting his flatmate's curious gaze, he swept his violin up to his shoulder and began to play. John sipped his tea and rested his head back. It was nearly dinner before either realized that time had passed.

* * *

"Take out, then?"

"Chinese?"

"They won't deliver here after The Great Exploding Eyeball incident." The two men burst into laughter.

"Really, John, you must work on those titles. Thai, then?"

"No, in fact, I need to run down to the shop, need milk for the morning. Why don't you…" he trailed off, remembering to whom he was speaking. Sherlock turned to him with an open, expectant look. _Worth a shot. What's the worst that could happen? No, wait, better not think about that._ "Why don't you run down to the Chinese place while I get the shopping?"

Sherlock picked up his mobile, scrolled through his contacts, and asked, "The usual?" while waiting for the line to be answered. All John could do was nod in stunned silence. _Maybe…_ he thought with the first real glimmer of hope he'd felt this year.

When John returned to the flat, carrier bags in hand, the plates and food cartons had already been laid out on the coffee table, along with a corkscrew and bottle of wine, and the television was set up for a movie. There was still a modest fire burning, and John found that, despite the unseasonably warm evening, he quite liked it.

"Sherlock!" He called down the hall. "I'm home."


	3. April-May

Sherlock had been clean for over three months, and it was killing him. With nothing coming in from the Yard, and no clients whose cases required leaving the flat, he was rapidly withdrawing into himself. And his duvet.

The minute John walked into the sitting room, he knew what was coming. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to do anything. He wanted to be left here to wallow in a downy prison of his own making, alone and forgotten.

Until he peeked out over his shoulder and saw what was in John's eyes. _Captain John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, who has served Queen and country with both a rifle and a scalpel, is afraid and in pain. Because of me._

Sherlock shimmied back into his cocoon. He needn't give himself away, but he knew, in the end, he would do what must be done. For John's sake.

* * *

"Outside. You know. Where the birds and the trees live?"

"Boring."

"Be that as it may, you haven't left the flat in days and I've only been to work and back, and I thought it might be… nice."

"Nice?" The duvet monster sneered.

"Sherlock, just… fine. Nope, no, alright. Fine." John threw his hands up in defeat and walked toward the door. _Three… two…_

"UGH." John headed downstairs to wait without turning around, knowing he would be unable to hide his smug smile. _Captain John Watson, Recluse Wrangler!_ He shook his head. _Seriously. Must work on these titles._

Hearing the front door open and shut, John turned in wonder. _How does he dress so quickly?_ In less than five minutes, Sherlock had gone from (presumably) pants-less to a proper shirt, full suit, and…

"Sherlock, you're wearing your coat."

"We're stopping at that coffee shop I like on the way," he stated as if negotiating the terms of his presence, fists balled up in his deep pockets.

"Sherlock. It is almost May. It is beautiful. I'm not even wearing a jumper and –"

"Yes, and for that we, the people of London, are all exceedingly grateful."

John muttered under his breath. "What was that?" Sherlock inquired with a sideways glance. They were close enough to the flat that Sherlock could turn back, and John did not want to risk that. Despite his friend's cool exterior, he understood too well the precarious state of his mind. He simply shook his head, and proceeded through the door, up to the shop counter.

Before he even finished speaking his order, Sherlock jumped in with his own. The barista looked uncertainly at the pair of them, to which the younger man replied with a self-satisfied smile, "Oh, my date will be paying."

"Not your date, Sherlock," John stated firmly, handing over a ten pound note.

* * *

For the fifth time in three weeks, Sherlock smiled at Robert the Barista and said, "My date will be paying." Only half listening, John opened his mouth to give his usual response, then shut it again. _Oh sod it._

The two men collected their coffee cups and strolled back onto the foggy street. Sherlock made an occasional deduction about an unlucky passer-by, both of them laughing comfortably and no longer needing to think about where they were going. The same street crossing, the same walking path. John made the same comments about the same pick-up rugby match. By the time they settled onto their bench, the fog had lifted to reveal the final moments of late afternoon.

Shoulders brushing lightly, empty cups in hand, they stared straight ahead at the fiery blaze of the setting sun.

"It was a nice date, John," Sherlock whispered, his careful smile reaching his eyes.

"Ta, Sherlock."


	4. June

John ran to the window, squinting at the road _. There must be some sign of him. He must be there somewhere?_

"JOHN!" came the anguished cry again. "John PLEASE!" _Maybe in some doorway, some alley not illuminated by the streetlamps. He had to be –_ wait. The window had been open already when he sprang out of bed. If Sherlock's window below was also open…

"It's just a nightmare," he spoke his relief to the empty bedroom. Just as he felt his heart rate begin to slow, he heard his flatmate cry out again. They had an understanding about these dreams, these private terrors they both experienced in the night. There would be no assistance, no acknowledgement, no discussion. Yes, there was always coffee and a fry-up instead of tea and toast on Sherlock's morning after, and without fail, John awoke from his most exhausting nights to the soothing sounds of a violin. But there was no discussion of that either, as there truly was nothing to say.

This time, though, as Sherlock continued to plead in the dark, something was different. He wasn't begging for John so much as... to him? _Could that be right?_ Biting his lower lip in concern, John found himself cautiously pushing open the younger man's door before he realized what he was doing. _You're_ _here now, Watson, may as well._

The duvet having been kicked to the floor, Sherlock was gripping his sheets with enough force to tear the fabric.

"Sherlock," John whispered, uncertain if it would even be safe to wake him.

"John? John! Please don't… not again, not this time… John…" he choked out a sob, his face contorting into the picture of despair.

"Sherlock, I'm here, it's alright, I'm not…"

"Don't leave me here alone again… don't…"

"Ok, Sherlock, ok," John replied, not knowing whether he could be heard, but not wanting to be the cause of his friend's pain. He replaced the cast-off duvet, crossed to the far side of the bed and slid in. Prying Sherlock's hands from the linens, he collected the now trembling man in his arms, stroking his back with one hand while holding him firmly with the other.

"Don't leave me, John," Sherlock snuffled into his shoulder. "Not again. Not this time. This time, please… _pick me._ "

* * *

Warm, dry lips laid a kiss against Sherlock's forehead, his temple, his razor-sharp cheekbone. He met them at the corner of his mouth where they lingered just a moment before the arms holding him suddenly stiffened. Four seconds passed, neither daring to breathe, until John leapt out of bed. Sherlock sat up swiftly, pulling the covers around him as if for protection.

"John, oh John, I… I didn't…" Dark blue eyes flashed something – _anger? confusion?_ – while the pajama-clad man in front of him took three slow breaths and rose to his fullest height.

 _No. No, no, please… say something, anything, just please, don't let it end like this._

"John, it's fine. We can talk about this. I'm sure it was just – "

"No, Sherlock."

"But I promise, if we just sit down I'm sure we can – "

"No. We will not talk about this… this…" he huffed an unsteady breath. "We will not talk about _this_. We are friends. Flatmates. We are… English. We will," he raised his chin, "we will have tea." And with that, Captain Watson strode out of the room.

* * *

 _Fuck. What had he done? Why had he even done it? Where had that even COME from?_

John hadn't been thinking. He hadn't really even been awake. _Liar._ _Ok fine._ He had been awake, but somehow it had just happened. He could feel the weight of Sherlock in his arms, just as he had been when he had said…

He held the edge of the worktop, and exhaled hard, his knuckles turning white. _Fuck. Just… fuck._ He saw his friend's expression when he looked back at him in bed. Shock. He had called out for comfort, he hadn't expected John to take advantage like that. _But he kissed me back_ , John thought, his heart starting to ache. _He wanted me to pick him. He said…_

A firm hand touched his shoulder. Fixing his eyes on the floor, John allowed himself to be turned sideways, then held his position, keeping open his option for retreat. The large hand trailed a few inches downward, stopping on his bicep as Sherlock pulled himself into John's space. Another hand grazed the stubble along his jaw, tilting his head up ever so slightly, as the softest lips he had ever felt ghosted over his own.

Their foreheads pressed lightly together as slender fingers continued down his arm, wrapping possessively around his left hand. He was pulled across the sitting room, where he fell, unprotesting, onto the sofa. Ink black curls fell gracefully across his thigh as his hand now came to rest on a hipbone jutting from beneath a blue dressing gown. They did not talk about it. There were no words needed as they watched the red-orange rays of the rising sun filter through the windows, the room slowly consumed, as if by flames.


	5. July

"Why would we go to Paris?" the detective asked, looking up suddenly from his microscope. He glanced around the kitchen, puzzled. John had spoken to him and immediately walked out of the room. Seeing his flatmate ( _boyfriend? Shut up_ ) re-entering the room, he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.

"Well that was rude."

"You're right," John replied, toweling off his hair and pouring himself a cuppa. "I mentioned Paris 15 minutes ago."

Sherlock pouted and returned to his observations of something neon green and fizzing. John rolled his eyes at the petulant scientist. _My petulant scientist_ , he thought, unable to remain annoyed with the man.

"For the case. From the blog? They live in Paris, and their email said – "

"Solved it."

"What? Sherlock, it only came in last night, and we haven't even – "

"Solved it, John. There was no need for so much as a phone call. Going to Paris would be a tremendous waste of time, especially while I…" he trailed off, making notes about the fizzing something which was now turning a sickly shade of orange.

"I assume you've been too engrossed in whatever _that_ is to contact the clients with your proposed solution?" John queried.

"Not proposed. And no, I have not yet contacted them." Sherlock sighed, indicating his boredom with this conversation.

John looked him over. For the past month, ever since The Declaration of the Dreaming Detective – _Seriously, Watson, I hate you_ – the two had shared frequent touches, tender smiles, and increasingly passionate kisses. But that was as far as it had gone. Despite valiant attempts at hiding his reactions, it was clear that Sherlock wanted more, and John was eager to oblige. It was just a matter of finding the right moment, which had so far eluded them in their own flat. _An evening in the City of Light might just do the trick._

He slowly carded his fingers through Sherlock's curls, scratching lightly across his scalp and drawing a contented moan from the detective.

"The clients will cover the bills for the train and the hotel. We're leaving the flat in an hour. If you're not packed in 30 minutes, I'm having at your sock index."

Sherlock turned to John, eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."

John simply raised one eyebrow and took a sip of tea. Sherlock jotted down one final note, chucked the orange-ooze-covered slide in the kitchen bin ("Dammit, Sherlock, you can't just – ") and slammed his bedroom door behind him.

* * *

To no one's surprise, the case had been successfully concluded by late afternoon. In addition to payment and expenses, the grateful clients had gifted Sherlock with box seats to the Paris Opera Ballet for that evening. After sharing a bottle of red wine over dinner at a sidewalk café, the boffin and the bachelor – _Really, John, giggling over an old newspaper headline_ – made their way toward the Grand Staircase of the Palais Garnier just in time for the curtain.

Sherlock leaned forward attentively, whispering, "I've always loved the ballet," his eyes lighting up as the sounds of the orchestra filled the theater. John watched the dancers at first, but found he could not focus on anything but his… friend? _Hopefully that isn't all… or won't be for much longer._ Surrounded by plush red velvet, alabaster skin nearly glowing in the dim lighting, he was ethereal. Breath-taking. And John couldn't wait one more minute.

The detective was so absorbed in the performance that it took him a few moments to notice his blogger's left hand gliding up the inside of his thigh. He sat back slowly, heart rate climbing exponentially as John's strong fingers rubbed over his rapidly hardening erection. When an involuntary shiver shook Sherlock's body, John accepted it as permission, deftly undoing Sherlock's trouser button and tugging down his zipper with impossible slowness.

Sherlock licked his lips, eyes glazing over. _This is happening. John, John Watson, my John, is about to –_

His mind went blank the moment a hand snaked under the band of his silk pants and a firm grip wrapped around his already leaking cock. He felt the warm pull of skin on skin as John took his time running his fist up Sherlock's considerable length, rubbing his palm through the pre-come at the tip, lubricating his way back down. Tension gradually built low in his groin, eventually causing him to grip the bottom of his chair to keep from pushing up into John's grasp, seeking more friction, more speed, _more more more._

John waited, maintaining this agonizing pace until a soft sound, something between a gasp and a cry, escaped the detective's throat. Knowing what it must be costing Sherlock to remain silent, and that their time was limited before the lights came up at intermission, he indulged his detective. John picked up his pace, lightly squeezing his way up Sherlock's now pulsing cock and twisting his wrist just enough over the head. Unable to help himself any longer, Sherlock began meeting John's pumping fist with shallow thrusts of his hips, head tilting over the back of his seat until his sightless eyes were fixed on the ornate ceiling. With one final upward jerk, his eyes slammed shut against the force that wracked his entire body, as John's hand was coated with Sherlock's semen.

He waited until the younger man's breathing began to slow before carefully sliding his hand back out of those now-ruined silk boxers. "Jesus, fuck, that was hot," John whispered. Sherlock turned, lower lip bloody from the effort of remaining quiet, and his eyes went wide. As the house lights came up, there was John Watson, _his John_ , licking come from his fingers and smiling.

* * *

They were laughing quietly as they reached the hotel room, Sherlock pulling the keycard from his Belstaff pocket with the hand that wasn't entwined with John's. He leaned down, catching his doctor's mouth with his own as he was pushed gently back against the door.

"Goodnight, John," he sighed, smiling as he contemplated one more kiss.

"You're not going to invite me in?" John asked, licking lips seductively.

"Uh… I…" the detective stuttered. Despite what had just happened, Sherlock found himself growing nervous. It had been dark, and they hadn't really seen one another. Suddenly the past few weeks didn't seem like that much time. What if they moved too quickly? _What if I can't make you happy? What happens to us then?_

Glancing down at his own body, Sherlock tilted his head. "I think you've left me in need of a shower."

John chuckled lightly. "I'll wait."

Sherlock nodded, uncertain what was supposed to happen next as he opened the door to his room. He was about to remove his coat when he noticed a chestnut-leather bag on the bed.

"John," he said, turning slowly and sinking his hands into his pockets. "There seems to have been a mistake. Or… was your room not satisfactory?"

"In fact, it wasn't. I called the hotel to make the change while you were speaking to the local police."

Sherlock's hidden fingers began clenching and unclenching rapidly as he tried to understand. Something had been wrong with John's room, so he phoned the hotel to have his bags moved. But rather than move them to another room, they were moved… _Oh._ He looked with wide eyes at his… his…

"I'll just begin the write-up for this case while you shower, yeah?" John said casually, setting his laptop on the desk. Raven curls bounced slightly as the detective nodded, too stunned to speak, and retreated with his bag toward the en suite.

Forty-five minutes later, Sherlock tentatively stepped back into the room, relieved to find John also fully clad in pajama bottoms and a worn t-shirt. John, in pajamas, lying in bed. _Waiting. For me._

"Totally knackered, let's try for some sleep. Alright?" John lifted the blanket to his right, inviting Sherlock to join him. He pulled him down against his shoulder, smiling into his hair and running a reassuring hand down his spine. As John's breathing fell into a deep, easy rhythm, Sherlock gazed out the window at the glittering city lights, like the flames of one million tiny candles, burning just for him.


	6. August

"Neighbor three, no, four houses down. Rose bush by the letterbox. Master bedroom recently painted."

"Sherlock, are you sure, because I can't just go knocking on someone's door accusing him of – "

"The room will be Niagara Blue. Trap door hidden beneath the wardrobe."

"Well now you're just showing off!" Lestrade yelled as Sherlock rounded the corner to the front of the house, making a beeline for the street. He kept one eye fixed on John, who was chatting with a young, attractive female officer, but said nothing as he raised his arm to conjure a taxi. Rain had been threatening for days, and he did not want to risk walking in a deluge.

"Look sharp, Watson! Considering what your _boyfriend's_ like in a good mood, I'd hate to see him jealous!" jibed a uniformed officer, causing an explosion of laughter from the gathered Yarders. John flushed slightly, straightening his shoulders and glaring at the man as he turned to join Sherlock on the pavement. Before he could take a second step, the furious detective swept past him, leaning severely into the officer's personal space. It took a few moments before John even understood what was happening.

" – has on several occasions made it perfectly clear that He. Is. Not. Gay. I could not be less interested in your assuredly asinine reasons for perpetuating such a ludicrous rumor; however, when your comments make my colleague uncomfortable, it impacts my work, and _that_ is utterly unacceptable. If in the future you persist in this intensely juvenile behavior, I will take great pleasure in revealing your own – " he glanced at the man's right-hand fingernails, which were immediately hidden behind his back – " _habits_. Am I understood?"

The officer in question had gone pale and was nodding dumbly in response. Sherlock sneered at him for a moment, then returned to the curbside, where he materialized a cab with one hand still shoved deep in his coat pocket. After giving the address, not another word was spoken until the door closed on the sitting room of 221B.

* * *

Before the detective could strike the first note on his violin, he was confronted by an inexplicably angry John Watson.

"Sherlock? What in the holy hell was that?"

Turning from the window with bow still raised, he could only supply a look of confusion by way of answer. _You were perfectly content on the drive home; you didn't even say a word. What could I have possibly done since then?_

"That… that… tirade back at the crime scene? About the "ludicrous rumor" that you and I are…" he trailed off, uncertain how to end the sentence. Repeating the words out loud, he was struck by how vehemently Sherlock had just denied their relationship. True, they had neither put a label on whatever this was, nor had they altered the way they behaved in public. _But surely, this means something, yeah? You don't just go about casually snogging your flatmate and occasionally sharing a bed, especially if –_

"You're not gay. You've said so more times than I can count. Well, I suppose I could count, but I don't want to and anyway that's not the point. I don't know what you're so upset about. All I did was save you the trouble of repeating yourself once again!"

"If you'd bothered to _observe_ ," John shot back, "I DID NOT repeat myself this time. In fact, I had no intention of saying a thing!"

"You didn't have to, it was all there: raised chin, squared shoulders, twitching trigger finger. Captain Watson, ready to strike."

John inhaled sharply, muscles in his back stiffening. " _What was that?"_

"Oh please, John, as if you weren't aware. I may be nearly incapable of deciphering emotion, but at least I don't insist on employing an alter-ego to fight it off," he retorted, turning his back on his blogger.

 _Fuck you, Sherlock._ He couldn't bring himself to say it. If he could even manage to speak around the lump in his throat, his voice was likely to betray him. He pulled on his jacket as he stomped down the stairs, hip suddenly aching for the first time in months.

Sherlock noticed the slight limp in his gait as he stood by the window, bow forgotten in his hand, watching John Watson disappear into the rain.

* * *

He woke with a start. Despite the heat and humidity of late summer, the grey light that filled the space was cold and thin, casting sharp shadows on the walls. The rain had persisted through the night, and the rhythmic drumming on the window echoed the sound of Sherlock's heart as he surveyed the room. It looked smaller somehow, though he knew that was impossible.

He listened for any sounds from upstairs, but the flat was silent. It was hard to tell the hour without the sun, and he didn't know when ( _or how_ ) he had fallen asleep in his chair. He crossed to the kitchen. His experiments had been untouched for 24 hours, and the kettle was cold. At a faint dripping sound from the faucet, he reached to adjust the knob, and his face fell. One half-empty cup of tea with milk.

Turning his coat collar up against the wet, he walked a few streets over before hailing a taxi. He was still in yesterday's clothes, but it didn't matter. He knew he would be sleeping alone tonight.


	7. September

There were clients and cases, work at the clinic and arguments over empty milk cartons. There was tea and Chinese takeaway. It looked for all the outside world that life at 221B Baker Street was what it had always been. _It is what it always had been_ , John reflected, _before… well. Before._ It should have been enough. _Why can't it just be enough?_

He was walking his regular route ( _our regular route_ , he thought sadly), avoiding the coffee shop, though a steaming cup of anything would be welcome relief from the miserable dampness that hadn't lifted for weeks. _The same street crossing, the same walking path._ He was just about to enter the park when an eerily quiet black sedan approached from behind. Hearing the rear door open, John sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable, and climbed in.

"Hello, Dr. Watson."

"Hello, Mycroft."

"I wondered if I might have a word about my little brother."

"If I'm not mistaken, I'm rather a captive audience."

Mycroft smiled without humor. "Quite right. Well. I understand that the cold front that settled over London a few weeks ago has spoiled the newfound, shall we say, _domesticity_ between Sherlock and yourself?"

"It's called a fight, Mycroft," John said impatiently.

"Yes, well, given the enduring effects of this _fight_ , I thought it might be time that you knew a little something of my brother's past."

"Anything Sherlock wants me to know, he'll tell me himself."

"Ah, loyal as ever, I see, Dr. Watson. An admirable quality, to be sure. Perhaps my dear little brother has already mentioned his singular foray into the world of _relationships_? No? Well, then. I suspect you may wish to bend the rules a bit this time. "

* * *

Sherlock stretched his arms above his head and glanced over at the strawberry-blonde head leaning back against the pillows. One eye opened, and he was met with a smile and a quick, sweet kiss as the man rolled over.

"Hmm, good morning you."

Sherlock just smiled and fidgeted with the blanket.

"Alright. Out with it. What's going on in that big brain of yours?"

"Nothing. Well. I was thinking."

"Aren't you always?" his boyfriend interjected without any edge to his voice. The casual flirtation that had started just before winter break had flourished into a proper relationship this term, and Sherlock did not want to risk its destruction for something as mundane as summer holiday.

"What if we took a flat together by campus for a few months? I have to be here all summer preparing for my thesis, and you could… work in town?"

His companion looked at him skeptically, pulling on his shirt and trousers and artfully disheveling his hair.

"We'll see, hm? Going down for breakfast."

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock spotted him in the dining hall. He had never spent any time with the others in the group, but he knew if he was going to make this relationship work, he'd have to make some… adjustments. _That's what people do, isn't it? Compromise?_

As he approached the table, someone called out, "Freak alert, 10 o'clock!" his boyfriend flushing crimson while everyone else laughed. Sherlock stopped in his tracks. Should he still try to join them? _Would walking away make it worse?_ He looked at his partner for help.

"You wouldn't believe what he asked me when I ran into him in the dorms this morning. Wants to get a flat together this summer! As if I would waste minutes, let alone months, of my life putting up with him! And just in case anyone still cares," he turned and met Sherlock's eyes squarely, "I'M. NOT. GAY."

* * *

John sat in horrified silence as the sedan pulled up to the flat. _All these years… all these years I had been… but I couldn't have known. Oh god, forgive me Sherlock, I didn't know._

The man in question was lying flat on the sofa, eyes closed, when John entered the sitting room.

"Sherlock. Show me."

"Really, John, after 7 months this is becoming rather tedious."

"Sherlock."

"I thought you wanted me to sleep… oh alright, fine." He huffed a loud breath and sat up, pushing back the sleeves of his dressing gown. John sat on the coffee table to examine the faded marks, then lightly brushed his lips over the veins on either arm and turned his searching gaze back to the younger man's face.

"Tea?" He didn't wait for the response before walking into the kitchen and clicking on the kettle, followed closely by his flatmate. _Best friend. And maybe still –_

Sherlock caught his lips in a hard kiss the moment he turned around, pressing him back against the worktop with enough force to rattle the waiting mugs. John answered by wrapping two strong arms around him, pushing him blindly down the hall, until he fell backwards onto the bed. Sherlock had unbuttoned John's shirt as they walked, but had now run out of patience and simply tore his own from his body, throwing it to the floor, then pulling John's vest over his head and shoving his jeans down. John straddled Sherlock's thighs and kissed him fiercely, pulling him into the center of the bed before crawling down the length of his body, alternating bites and kisses until he reached top of his trousers.

Locking eyes with an already panting detective, John licked his lips and dragged the zipper down with his teeth. Without breaking their gaze, he lifted Sherlock's hips, and freed him of both trousers and pants at once.

"My god, you are so beautiful." The hope that filled Sherlock's expression upon hearing those words brought tears to John's eyes. _How could I have doubted him? This man. This –_

"Gorgeous, stunning, complicated man," he finished aloud. Sherlock inhaled sharply as the color rose in his cheekbones, and suddenly nothing was happening fast enough. John crushed their lips together as his weight pinned Sherlock to the bed. He lifted his hips slightly, slotting his thick, prominent erection along Sherlock's long, painfully hard cock and began rutting until the friction almost burned.

"Jooohn. Jooohn, I … John, lube," Sherlock moaned, gesturing to the nightstand. Reluctantly stopping their movements, John yanked open the drawer, flipping open the lid on the half-used bottle and poured it into Sherlock's waiting palm. Slender fingers immediately wrapped around both of them and set an urgent, almost frantic pace.

"Fuck, oh my god Sherlock, you feel so… I'm… are you…"

"Almost, I just…" Sherlock barely registered the movement at his side until two slick fingers were penetrating his hole, thrusting quickly and searching for his prostate. The tightness of Sherlock's body brought John dangerously close to the edge, but he needed the detective to climax first, needed him to be taken care of. He knew if he could just hold on a few seconds longer, he could –

"JOHN! Oh OH FUCK YES. Yes, John, yes… I… I …" the rest caught in his throat as long white strings of come shot across his stomach, mixing just seconds later with John's. The older man stood up slowly, still breathing hard, and returned with a wet flannel. After wiping both of them down, he slid gracelessly beneath the covers, holding out his right arm for Sherlock to curl into. They were both asleep before either could speak a word.

Later that night, John placed a kiss lightly into Sherlock's hair while he stared out at the waxing moon. The sky was clearer after the weeks of rain, and the stars shone brighter, as if they had been washed and polished. Maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe Captain Watson had become his own worst enemy. _Maybe it's time to do something about it._


	8. October

"You must be joking."

"No, Sherlock, I'm not. And I've already rented your costume, so there's no backing out. It's done. You're going. Deal with it."

" _Deal_ with it? John. You are expecting me to give up a Friday evening to prance about in some absurd outfit in front of those imbeciles at Scotland Yard."

"You've done it before…"

"FOR A CASE, John! Not in the name of some misappropriated pagan holiday celebrated in the modern world through the collection of chemically repugnant food by children threatening perfect strangers."

John sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. He knew this would be a hard sell. "Sherlock, 'trick-or-treat' is hardly a threat, you know you love sweets, and I'm not actually asking. Your costume is hanging in your wardrobe. I'll meet you at the party at eight, and – "

"You're making me go alone?"

"Not alone. I have to work Friday. I will meet you there. Besides, given the circumstances, I think we should arrive separately." He could see the hurt flash briefly in Sherlock's eyes at that, but it was necessary. No one knew about them. _It's just better this way…_

* * *

Stepping out of the cab, he straightened his waistcoat before clenching his fingers in his Belstaff pockets, shaking his head in utter disbelief that he was walking into NSY like this. Beneath his veneer of confident disinterest, Sherlock was still bruised by John's words yesterday afternoon. Surely, in addition to this unnamed relationship taking place behind the doors of 221B, they remained friends. And friends could attend a Halloween fancy dress party together. _Or better yet, avoid one together._

As he checked his coat, he was met with several surprised glances and a few sniggers hidden behind punch glasses. Not only was he there against his will; he was dressed as a Victorian gentleman _._ _Really, John._ This would be less humiliating were he not alone. It was almost half eight. Where was John, anyway?

Wait. _What was John?_ Sherlock suddenly realized that he had no idea what his friend's costume was. As he intently scanned the crowd for someone the right height and weight, he failed to notice a figure approaching on his left.

When he finally turned to the man now standing mere inches from him, his lips parted in a silent gasp. The shining medals on his chest highlighted the gold in his hair; the navy coat deepened his eyes to a warm indigo. The man held out a steady hand in invitation.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock whispered, the sounds barely escaping his throat. The man smiled and gave a shallow nod. The detective reached out slowly and accepted his offer, and with that, Captain Watson led him to the dance floor.

Sherlock was more grateful than ever for the difference in their heights. He could hide his emotions from everyone else in the room, but he knew that John, _his John_ , would only need to look into his eyes to see all that he felt in that moment. Arms wrapped loosely around each other, he let a subtle smile begin to trace over his features.

Until he heard it.

"Hey, Watson!" someone shouted from the crowd. "What ever happened to ' _not gay'_?" The laughter that followed was bad enough, but it was the stiffening of muscles in John's back that caused Sherlock to assume his practiced mask of indifference. Those few stolen minutes would have to be enough. John had generously allowed him that much, and he would hold on to the memory of every sensation.

"What was that?" John had turned to confront the man who had taunted him, and another voice came from the sidelines.

"I believe, Doctor Watson – "

"Captain."

"Apologies, _Captain_ Watson. I believe that the question was: what happened to 'not gay'?" The room had gone largely quiet, with more than half the party eagerly awaiting a response. John looked around the crowd, shoulders squared and stance firm, then raised his chin and inhaled deeply.

"Sherlock Holmes did."

A murmur ran through the crowd, but Sherlock didn't hear it. He was only aware of the thumb grazing his right cheekbone, the hand tugging gently at the back of his neck. The lips pressing sweetly and firmly against his own. He didn't hear the round of applause that followed, because his attention was consumed by the grin on his boyfriend's face, the arms pulling him into a close embrace.

There they were, alone on the dance floor, together for all to see: An Officer and A Gentleman. _Finally got one right, Watson._

* * *

They had held hands and chatted calmly the entire ride home, but the minute the door to the street had closed behind them, John found his back against the wall, Sherlock's fingers reverently tracing the buttons on his uniform.

"I've pictured you like this so many times," came the baritone in his ear, " _my soldier_ , ready for action." Before he knew what was happening, the detective found their positions reversed, a strong hand pinning him in place.

"I'm a _commanding officer_ , Sherlock," John replied in a warning tone. The younger man held his gaze, a smirk raising one corner of his mouth. "Right then," he said firmly, removing his hand from Sherlock's chest. "My room. Now."

When Captain Watson strode into the room, his boyfriend ( _He is. My boyfriend. Ok, not the time for this, Watson._ ) pulled his hands swiftly from his coat pockets, almost buzzing with anticipation.

"Strip." Sherlock dropped his coat and jacket to the floor and began deftly undoing his cuffs. John planted his feet further apart and folded his arms before his chest. " _Slowly._ "

He removed his waistcoat, and then carefully released each button on his shirt, peeling the crisp white fabric from his equally smooth, pale skin. He could feel the heat of John's stare as he unfastened his trousers, bending gracefully to slide them down his impossibly long legs, removing his socks and shoes in the process.

John smiled appreciatively at the sight before him. Miles of lean muscles, the flush spreading across a milky chest, and a bobbing, half-hard cock, as long and delicious as the man himself. John's hand moved to his own trouser buttons.

"On your knees." Sherlock stepped forward until he stood just before John, licked his lips, then sank to the floor. "Take it out." His hand slid through the front of John's pants, carefully releasing his thick, engorged cock. "Hands behind your back." Sherlock stared straight ahead, committing to memory the way John's skin darkened toward the tip, the way he angled fiercely away from his body, the way he smelled – like soap and arousal and power.

"Lick." Emerald eyes locked on John's then, holding his gaze, submissive yet defiant, as the pointed tip of a tongue trailed along the underside of his cock. The second time, his tongue was flattened, _tasting every inch of you._ It ran lightly over the slit, lapping at the first beads of pre-come, before he wrapped his lips around the head and began sucking softly.

John exhaled loudly, weaving a hand into Sherlock's hair before yanking sharply at his curls, causing the younger man to gasp in surprise. The army captain's eyes were almost black with desire as he kept a firm hold with one hand and traced those lips – _those unbelievably soft, full, pink lips_ – with the other. Looking down at Sherlock's now swollen cock, his own twitched in response.

"Touch yourself." The detective's pupils grew wider as he dragged calloused fingers up his own length. "Harder." He released a shaky breath, watching the look on John's face as he wrapped his hand around the base and began to slide his fist up and down, the friction raw on his unlubricated skin.

" _Fuck."_ John stared a moment longer before dropping a second hand into Sherlock's hair and forcing him forward. The detective offered no resistance, taking in as much as he could, hollowing his cheeks, and sucking hard and slow on the way up. Once John's head tilted back, lulled by his partner's hypnotic rhythm, Sherlock suddenly released him, placed an open-mouth kiss to the tip of his nearly crimson cock, and circled his tongue rapidly.

"Grab your balls," John ordered. "Pull." Sherlock obediently reached down with his left hand, opening his knees wider to maintain his balance, and began massaging himself, tugging just hard enough to border on pain. His involuntary hum of satisfaction sent a shiver through John's body, and the grip on his curls tightened as Captain Watson thrust hard and fast into his throat.

"Now, Sherlock. Come. NOW." The groan Sherlock let out as he covered his fist and overflowed onto the floor pushed John over the edge. He had just enough time to pull Sherlock's head back sharply with one hand while gripping himself with the other, finishing all over those ridiculous cheekbones.

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, completely debauched and utterly spent. John stroked his hair, laughing softly.

"Do you know how fucking gorgeous you look like that?"

Sherlock gave a cheeky wink. "Yes, Captain."


	9. November

"I'm Dr. John Watson, I need to find Sherlock Holmes. He was admitted this afternoon? He's my private patient and it's critical that I see him _immediately_."

"Just a moment please." _If she has to look it up, they aren't desperate to avoid him. And if they aren't desperate to avoid him, that can only mean…_ "He lost consciousness soon after being admitted. The blood loss was significant, but he appears to have stabilized. He's in number 291. The attending should be in to speak with you shortly."

John involuntarily sucked in his breath as he entered the private room. Against the pristine linens, Sherlock looked so pale and thin. _Fragile_ , John thought, not certain whether he was referring to his friend's prone form or to the delicately balanced mind within.

He sat on the edge of the bedside chair, leaning close to the unconscious man and gently wrapping his cold hand around the long, still fingers resting atop the blanket. "Sherlock," he whispered to himself, "I should have been there. I should always be there. Why did you go without me?"

"I thought I could handle it," came the stiff reply. John looked up, startled. _Bastard._

"Sherlock. What were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself killed. AGAIN."

"Don't be so melodramatic, John. I was stabbed in the leg. I'm fine."

"You are not fine. You were stabbed in the thigh. You lost a tremendous amount of blood. If the paramedics hadn't reached you when they did – "

"But they did. I had already texted Lestrade, the police found me moments after it happened, and here I am. Fine. I'm not even in pain."

"Well, that still doesn't… wait, did you say you aren't in pain?" John sprang out of his chair, grabbing for the chart at the end of the bed. "Why aren't you in any pain?"

"Because, John, I told you it was just a minor wound and I – " he was interrupted by John wrenching open the door and bellowing into the hallway.

"Get me the attending physician for this patient NOW!"

* * *

With the street door closed behind them, Sherlock finally rested his weight on John's shoulders, allowing himself to be practically carried up to bed. He sat heavily on the mattress, plunging his hands into his Belstaff pockets, head tilting back in exhaustion from the effort of acting uninjured. John moved around the room silently, returning with pajamas, then began to undress his flatmate.

"While I appreciate how quickly you were able to negotiate my release from that wretched place, I assure you, now that we're back home, I can manage perfectly well on my own."

John continued his task of redressing Sherlock without speaking.

"Honestly, it was only a few hours. It is unlikely the dosage was sufficient enough to induce withdrawal symptoms, let alone trigger a relapse."

"Sherlock, you are an addict."

"User," he replied, rolling his eyes.

"DOCTOR," John pointed to himself, then to the bed. "Get in."

The detective began doing as he was told, but stopped short when he realized he was being left in the room alone. "Where are you going?"

"Tea," John shouted back over his shoulder. In truth, he would've preferred scotch, _if I were sure you'd still be here when I woke_.

The world's only consulting kindergartener slumped into a sulk, feigning interest in one of John's medical books and shooting annoyed glances around his pillow, but ultimately lost the battle by falling asleep before his tea went cold. About three hours later, a very irritable Doctor Watson was awoken by a sudden scraping against the wall.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?!"

"Removing the periodic table."

"Sherlock."

"There have been new manmade elements discovered – well, created, technically – and this outdated version simply won't do."

" _Sherlock_."

"I doubt I can acquire a new copy at this hour, let alone have it framed, but at least this way some of the work will be finished. Then in the morning I can go out and – "

"SHERLOCK." The younger man finally turned to make eye contact. "Come back to bed." He looked down at the frame in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, then carefully leaned it against the wall behind the door and slid back under the duvet. As John turned toward the far wall and returned to sleep, Sherlock bit down hard on his lip, trying not to notice the sharpness of the shadows cast against his boyfriend's back by the dim light of the streetlamps.

When John woke the second time, it was to a slight shaking behind him. He rolled to face the center of the bed, where he was met with his boyfriend's curved and slightly trembling spine.

"Sherlock?" he whispered, fighting to keep the fear out of his voice. He pushed up onto his arm, but Sherlock buried his face further in his pillow.

"What if I can't do it?"

"Can't do what?"

The only answer was a quick, wavering intake of breath. _Oh_. John wrapped his left arm around Sherlock, entwining their fingers over his heart.

"You can. You are. I believe in Sherlock Holmes," he quipped lightly, and felt rather than heard a soft laugh in reply. "Besides," he pressed his chest tightly against his partner's back, placing a feather-light kiss against the nape of his neck, "you don't have to do it alone, love. There are always two of us."

* * *

The wintry morning light filtered through the windows, rousing an exhausted and moody detective. The simple motion of standing caused a throbbing pain in his leg, which he attempted to disguise as he entered the kitchen and sat, watching John prepare a fry-up with the good cheese.

"Jawn?" he said through an exaggerated yawn.

"Jaaaaawn?" He whined when no response came. "Coffee." No answer. " _Please?_ " Nothing. "My leg hurts. I wasn't in this much pain yesterday, why is it – "

John shot an icy glare over his shoulder, then returned his attention to breakfast. _Oh._ Sherlock looked down sheepishly and began twisting the sash of his dressing gown.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. Still no reply. "John. I am, alright? I'm sorry. I didn't…" he sighed. "I didn't think he had a knife. It happened so quickly, and by the time the ambulance arrived, I was in shock and losing a lot of blood. They asked about allergies, and I simply did not consider… anyway. I'm sorry."

John placed a large plate of food and a mug of coffee in front of Sherlock and sat across the table, not making eye contact. "Eat." Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it and followed his doctor's orders, despite the nagging nausea he'd been feeling since he woke. When he had finished, John stood, cleared the table, and walked into the sitting room. Sherlock followed nervously, perching at the opposite end of the sofa.

"Sherlock," John began tiredly, rubbing a hand over his face, "Sherlock, this wasn't your fault."

"Then why are you angry?" The anxiety showed plainly in the younger man's eyes.

"I'm not. Well, ok, I am. Sherlock, there's a reason I don't want you running around London alone. If I lost you again – "

"Don't be ridiculous, John, I told you, I had already texted Lestrade and was in no real – "

"I couldn't survive it, Sherlock. Not again. Not after…" John gestured vaguely to the space between the two of them, licking his lower lip before biting it to steady himself. "Not now. When you risk your life like that, you also risk mine." A heavy silence sat between them as they both examined the fabric of the cushions. "No more going out on your own like that. Promise me."

Sherlock was too overwhelmed to speak. Shortly following his return, Mycroft had strongly insinuated that the risk to John's life had not ceased when the sniper's crosshairs had been lifted. Instead of Moriarty, he faced the same threat he had before beginning his tenure at 221B. Sherlock had "died" once and overcome death once just to protect his blogger. Surely he could wait thirty minutes to chase a criminal, even if it did impact The Work.

John was relieved to see his friend nod his assent, and felt the urge to move while he regained control of his emotions. He walked slowly across the room and knelt, ignoring the pain in his hip, to light a small fire. As he rose to his feet again, he heard the tentative tone in his flatmate's voice.

"John? I… um…" Sherlock sighed. Maybe he shouldn't ask. He had probably imagined it anyway. "Nevermind. Not important."

"No. What is it, Sherlock?"

"Did you… last night. I thought I heard… did you call me… _love_?"

John's face flushed crimson. He hadn't thought Sherlock had noticed that, but who was he kidding. Of course he had. _This is Sherlock Holmes._

"I'm… yes. I'm sorry. I was worried about you and it slipped out and I know it's not the kind of thing we would normally – "

"No, it's not – "

"No, of course, I know that, and I assure you it won't happen again, and I truly want to – "

"I liked it."

"Apologize." John resumed his seat beside his partner, brows furrowed. "What?"

"I… liked it. No one has ever… called me something like that. Before." Sherlock chewed at his lower lip, picking invisible lint off his pajama bottoms. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not _asking_ you to – "

"No, I know," John replied, "but every once in awhile, if you don't _mind_."

"Not in front of anyone else," Sherlock's face grew serious. "And only if you… want to." A broad grin lit up John's face at that, and he pulled Sherlock down to lie on his chest as he turned on the television.

"I want to. Sweetiepie."

"That's revolting."

"Sorry. Sugarplum."

"John, stop."

"Ok, ok." John ruffled Sherlock's hair affectionately. " _Honeybee._ "

"We're breaking up."


	10. December

Sherlock burst through the door, shaking snowflakes from his coat as he bounded up the stairs to the flat.

"John! JOHN!" He stuck his head through the sitting room door, but he neither heard nor saw any signs of movement. Still in bed, at this hour? You must be off work today. Well good, you're always a bit grumpy when you have to call out. Sherlock took the stairs two at a time to the upper bedroom and resumed yelling when he reached the landing.

"John, wake up, we have a case!" He called through the closed door. He had texted that he would be spending the night at Bart's, analyzing a particularly interesting specimen of decomposed pulmonary tissue. Though he knew his partner wouldn't mind that, he didn't want to be within striking distance when he woke. Captain Watson was not exactly a morning person. However, the detective's patience being nearly non-existent, he only managed to wait about 30 seconds before knocking and pushing the door open.

"John, it's a locked room homicide. I don't have all the details, but it sounds like it's at least a sev… " He stopped dead in his tracks. The room was empty. Not just of John, but of everything. Other than the curtains hanging on the window, there was not one shred of furniture or decoration in sight.

"Dammit," came the muttered curse from the stairwell as John ascended quickly. "Sherlock, you're not supposed to be here."

The detective turned to face him, mouth agape, blatant confusion playing across his usually stoic features. John took a deep breath and simply stared at him for a moment, watching his lips move in a failed attempt at speech.

"Listen, Sherlock, I've been thinking – "

"I'm sorry," the detective blurted out before John said something that he couldn't take back. "I don't know what I did, or said, or didn't say, or failed to remember, or broke, or burned, or spilled on, or who I insulted or got fired or accidentally poisoned or whatever unacceptable thing or combination of things that I did or did not do butpleaseJohn – DON'T LEAVE," he pleaded.

John blinked slowly and took a sip of his tea.

"Can I talk now?" Looking away and clenching his fists in his pockets, Sherlock was uncertain as to whether he could handle whatever John would say next. Eventually he swallowed hard and made eye contact.

"Sherlock," John began (he looks so young when he's afraid), "take a minute and observe."

"Observe what, John? There's nothing here. The first night you had to yourself in months and you've used it to clear out of the flat. Given how thoroughly you managed the job on such short notice, I suspect you've been planning this for quite awhile."

"You're right. I have." Sherlock's jaw dropped at that. Despite the obvious indications of what was coming, he hadn't expected John to be so direct. It stung more than he cared to admit.

"But Sherlock, answer one question: If I had moved out of the flat in secret last night, would I be standing here in a bathrobe with wet hair, holding a fresh cuppa?"

The younger man shook his head, blinking as if actually seeing John for the first time. Of course he wouldn't have just taken a shower and made tea if he had abandoned their home. But all of his things were gone. No, not gone. Just not here. If he hasn't moved out, and his things aren't in his bedroom, then…

John's tea sloshed over the floor and onto the wall behind him as six feet of wool-wrapped boyfriend folded itself around him. After wincing at the burning liquid spilling over his hand, he took a breath and chuckled into Sherlock's shoulder.

"So, you don't mind, then? It was supposed to be a surprise."

"Mind? JOHN!" The detective almost squeaked, clutching even tighter to his doctor. John circled his free arm around the man's slim waist and brushed a kiss against his neck.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

* * *

"Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson, and thanks again for helping with the washing up," John called down the stairs before closing the kitchen door. "Sherlock, you can come out now, there's nothing left to do." Lazy git. Where has he disappeared to, anyway? Haven't seen him since the puddings came out.

"That's because I've been preparing your gift, John," came the reply from the mind reader down the hall.

"Well it's about time! Let's have it, then," John answered as he settled into his chair.

"It's in the bedroom. You'll have to come here, I can't move it."

John sighed and stood slowly. It had been a long evening, and after cooking, hosting, keeping his flatmate in check, and now cleaning, he'd had enough. He stretched his arms above his head, then rubbed his sore shoulder. Whatever unconventional and likely questionable gift Sherlock was giving him could surely wait until morning. John was crafting his argument against opening it tonight when he walked through the bedroom door, his jaw dropping at the sight before him.

"Sh-Sherlock…?"

"Happy Christmas, John."

"I… wh…" he stammered.

"You moved into my room – our room – as your gift to me. You gave me you. I thought it would only be fitting to return the favor."

John nodded, licking his lips as his eyes grew dark. Their Egyptian cotton sheets had been replaced with rich purple satin. The porcelain skin of his lover's chest was visible between the unbuttoned halves of his purple dress shirt (my god, that fucking shirt!), and the glorious expanse of skin between his hips and thighs was broken by dark purple lace pants. Where he had even found those, John couldn't begin to guess, but one glance at the bulge they were failing stunningly to hide made his mouth water.

Captain Watson moved slowly to the foot of the bed, taking in every inch of the man before him while running his palms slowly up the leather straps leading out from beneath the mattress. How Sherlock had managed to secure both his ankles and wrists without assistance was a mystery, though at the moment, it was one John couldn't be less interested in solving.

He slowly stripped out of his own clothes, forgetting the exhaustion of a few minutes previous, until he was standing bare before the detective. Sherlock's breath caught at the sight of John's chest, his scar, his legs – every time he laid eyes on his soldier it felt like the first time. He could feel each cell in his body tremble with want as John crawled up the length of his body, hovering above him, just out of reach.

They stared into one another's eyes, blue on blue, listening to the drum of their heartbeats loud in the stillness of Christmas night. John gradually lowered his body until his still surprisingly sculpted chest was pressing down on Sherlock's, and trailed his tongue across the younger man's palette. Sherlock's mouth went dry as John whispered against his lower lip.

"Are you sure you want this?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Safe word?"

A split second of nervousness flashed in the detective's eyes.

"Sherlock, be honest with me. If you don't want to do this, it's fine, I – "

"Truffles." John paused for a brief moment, then bit down forcefully on the cupid's bow beneath him, a bead of bright red blood contrasting sharply with the pale pink. Sherlock's eyes went wide, pupils dilating from equal parts shock and lust.

"Tell me what you want."

"Whatever you want, John." Suddenly, the weight on his chest was gone. Before Sherlock could process what was happening, John was sliding back onto the bed, a wicked smile on his face and a blue dressing gown sash in his hands. "But I'm already restr – OH," he cut off as the sash was wound twice around his eyes. A voice came thick and low, teeth grazing the pulse in his neck.

"Now, tell me. What do you want?"

A shiver ran down Sherlock's spine. "Take me. Take all of me. Make me beg. Make me yours."

The fabric lifted away from his torso, short nails scraping painfully down his sides as a mouth locked high on his neck. He could feel the bruise forming already, and he knew he wouldn't be able to hide it, wouldn't want to hide it, because it showed the world that he belonged to John Watson. Warm breath ghosted over his left nipple, the flick of a tongue making him whimper in anticipation. The weight on the bed shifted, and a new sensation was there, gliding over the mark on his neck, cool and slightly rough. Leather.

"This is for everyone to see. Would you like something just for you?"

"Yes, John. Ah, fuck!" The sting came fast and sharp on his upper thigh. "Captain! Yes, Captain." A fingertip traced the spot before being replaced by a lingering kiss. The leather tip of the riding crop settled against the creamy skin of his chest, slowly tracing the lines of his tight abdominal muscles, down the soft auburn hair, and dipping just beneath the top of his pants.

Sherlock's stomach tensed visibly, safe word heavy on the back of his tongue, but he relaxed slightly as the crop skimmed past his almost-full erection, across his prominent right hipbone, and over the posh, unbelievably expensive lace. He gasped loudly as the leather was replaced with the warmth of John's mouth, hot and wet and fuck yes against his scantily covered skin.

"You smell fucking delicious," came the voice from the end of the bed just before a tongue licked up his length through the lace, eliciting a deep baritone moan as Sherlock's cock filled out, pushing free from the band of his pants. "Tell me what you want."

"J-Captain. I want… I want… more." Another sting landed on his hipbone, harder than the first. "I want… to wrap my lips around you, feel you down my throat."

"Fuck," was all he heard before the scent of John flooded his senses. As he relaxed his throat, taking in as much of the army doctor as he could, he felt a light touch at his waist before his own now aching cock was swallowed whole. As John hummed in satisfaction, Sherlock fought against his restraints, wanting desperately to touch him, to hold on, to ground himself. Just as his eyes rolled back beneath the makeshift blindfold, he felt unexpectedly cold. The cuffs around his ankles were being removed, and a moment later, so were those around his wrists. I don't understand. I didn't ask him to stop. Did I do something wrong? What could have –

"Turn over," John commanded. Sherlock reached for his blindfold when a searing smack fell on the already bruised hip. "Turn. Over."

Sherlock obeyed, lying still on the luxurious sheets while his clothes were removed and his wrist restraints were fastened, a bit more tightly than before, he noted. The silence in the room was deafening, and he was on the verge of asking whether his partner was still there, when the tip of a tongue touched down between his shoulder blades and, inch by endless inch, followed the curve of his spine. He let out a shallow breath, then a surprised gasp as teeth sunk into perfect, unimaginably soft round flesh. He felt John's smirk against his skin.

"That one's for me."

Steady hands gripped his ankles, traveled over defined calves, slim but strong thighs, then spread him apart. John had never seen him like this, never taken the time to examine his body so closely. What does he see when he looks at me? How can Captain John Watson possibly –

"OH! GOD, JOHN!" Without warning, that tongue, that truly remarkable tongue, was on him, in him, lapping him up greedily and oh god fuck, "JOHN, FUCK!"

"Mmmm, almost, not finished here yet. Relax for me… that's it…" he trailed off as he plunged through Sherlock's gorgeously tight hole, clutching onto his hipbones and fucking his tongue into the detective's body. The unbridled moans issuing from the younger man drove him on, made him impossibly harder as the tension built, neither man able to find relief against the frictionless satin sheets. Just before Sherlock's remaining control slipped, he felt John's breath on his neck.

"You are fucking amazing." Teeth nipped at his ear, grazed his jaw as two lube-slicked fingers breached his body, working him open for only a minute before being joined by a third. It burned, but Sherlock didn't care, this was John and all he could feel was –

"Tell me what you want."

"You, John, please."

"Say it." He removed the blindfold, his almost black eyes boring into the emerald pair staring back at him over a flushed shoulder. John licked noisily at his own lips, clearly relishing the lingering taste of consulting detective. Sherlock's mouth parted, his brain going temporarily offline.

"I… Fuck me. I want you, all of you, deep inside me. Please, John, please, I need you. I need you to fuck me, god, don't –FUCK," he yelled out as Captain Watson penetrated him without warning, wrenching his hips upward while shoving his shoulders into the mattress.

"Jesus, Sherlock, you… OH… you're so…" He thrust faster every moment, spurred on by Sherlock's unadulterated cries of pleasure and focusing just enough to hit the man's prostate on each forceful downward movement.

"JOHN, oh GOD! John," he almost sobbed, wrists pushing violently against his restraints, hands clawing for purchase at the sheets. It was absolutely the sexiest thing John had ever seen, and as he felt himself about to fall over the edge, he punctuated each thrust of his hips with the words his partner deserved to hear.

"Sherlock. Bloody. Holmes. You. Are. The. Best. Fucking. Shag. Of. My. Life!"

Both men lost control in the same instant, John pouring into Sherlock, and Sherlock pouring onto the sheets already soaked with sweat. The detective winced as his blogger pulled out, but was grateful for the removal of the leather cuffs that had left rather telling grooves around his wrists.

He sighed at the feeling of a warm flannel gently rubbing against his overly sensitive skin, and slowly turned onto his back. Biting lightly at the inside of his lip, he turned his head toward the man lying beside him.

"Yes, Sherlock," John whispered, "I meant every word."

The younger man pulled the duvet from under the bed, settling it around them and hiding his face in John's shoulder before allowing it to break into a wide grin.

"Happy Christmas, John."

* * *

John smiled to himself as he watched Sherlock cross the snow-covered street, brown paper bag in his arms. The usually impossible git had actually volunteered to pick up takeaway tonight. While he was out, John built up a large fire, opened a bottle of red and pulled on his most comfortable white jumper. Despite his boyfriend's constant protests over his choice in clothing, Sherlock never failed to curl around him like a lazy cat whenever he wore this particular jumper. And considering last year's holiday season, a cozy New Year's Eve alone in front of the fire is exactly what the doctor ordered.

After Sherlock had finished picking at the dumplings and John had cleared the coffee table, several hours passed in warm, easy silence. Sherlock was half-dozing against John's shoulder, a glass of wine still in his hand, while John intently watched the dancing orange flames, one eye on the clock. When only a few minutes remained before midnight, he roused his detective.

"Sherlock. Sherl, wake up, it's almost time."

"Hmm, why's it matter? Already New Year in France, 's arbitrary, time zones," he drawled.

John shifted nervously on the sofa. "Sherlock, please wake up. I have… I have something I need to tell you. And it has to be now."

Sherlock sat up, suddenly alert. John was obviously nervous. He had lit a fire, poured the good wine, and put on that damn white jumper that made him look adorable. It couldn't be something bad, then. They had been sitting here all evening, what could be so urgent now?

"Sherlock, there's something... I should say," John began.

Wait.

"I've meant to say always and then never have," he continued.

No. No, he couldn't…

"Since we're about to leave this bloody awful year behind us…"

Oh, for a minute I thought he was going to –

"I might as well say it now. Sherlock," John gently took his partner's face in his hands, "I love you."

Sherlock sat in stunned silence as the sound of London celebrating erupted outside. He blinked fiercely at the tears he knew John could see filling his eyes. Feeling the heat rising up his neck, he knew he must look an utter mess as he failed several times to swallow the lump constricting his throat.

The mix of emotion and alcohol turned his pale skin a warm, dusky red, and the flickering light from the fire made his eyes glisten.

"You have never looked more beautiful."

"I – I love you, John." A tear escaped down to his cheekbone, where John caught it softly with his lips before entwining their tongues together.

He tastes like wine…

"I love you."

And sleep…

"I love you."

And hope.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock Holmes."

"Happy New Year, John Watson."


	11. January-February

"I assume your date will be paying?"

It was an old joke by now, but Robert the Barista seemed more than happy to play along. Sherlock inclined his head slightly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he flexed his long, gloved fingers in his Belstaff pockets.

"The usual for Johnlock!" Robert called over his shoulder.

"What on earth is 'Johnlock'?" Sherlock asked as they stepped back onto the street. There was a solid cloud cover and it was rather cold, even for January. "And why are we walking, again?"

"We're walking because you can't stay cooped up in the flat for two weeks, no matter what the weather."

"I assure you I can," he retorted. John shot him the well-worn sideways glance that said _I am your doctor, you will do as I say_ , to which he just huffed and pouted into his coffee.

"And Johnlock… well. _We_ are Johnlock." Sherlock furrowed his brow. "John and Sherlock, you know… Johnlock. Have you really not seen the papers?" The detective pulled his upturned coat collar closer around his face. Ever since _the fall_ , newspaper headlines had been a sensitive subject.

"You're telling me that just because we no longer hide the fact that we're a couple – "

"To be fair, we weren't actually a couple before..."

"They've reduced us to one person? Preposterous. After the years I've spent saving this city from itself – "

"That's a bit dramatic…"

"The moment I publicly announce – "

"I announced it, Sherlock, on my blog…"

"That I am in a relationship, suddenly half of the credit goes to – "

" _Careful, Sherlock_ ," John warned, stopping at the entrance to the park.

It took a minute for the disgruntled detective to realize he was walking alone. When he finally turned back, he couldn't help but soften at the look on his blogger's face. _His blogger. His._ Sherlock reached out a hand in silent apology, and John stepped forward to take it, shaking his head. The same walking path, the same rugby pitch. As they sat side-by-side on the frozen bench, pressed together for warmth, John placed a hand on his boyfriend's knee, absently drawing circles with his thumb. Sherlock smiled, watching their breath rise in the frosty air.

" _Johnlock_."

"Mmm."

"So does this mean I can stop wearing the ear hat?"

* * *

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope, sent a quick text, then resumed studying the slide.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Funny."

"What can I do for you, John? I've got hours of work ahead of me, and you know how I hate to be interrupted in the lab."

"You weren't answering your phone, though I see you have no problem texting someone else," he replied with feigned exasperation. Sherlock only rolled his eyes. "So I came by to tell you we're having dinner at Angelo's tonight."

"Why?"

"Because."

" _Because_ is not a reason, John."

"Because I want to, Sherlock, not everything has to be so bloody complicated."

"What time do you need me there?"

"Won't you be coming home first?"

Sherlock sighed. For all that he loved John, this conversation was growing tedious, and he truly did have work to do.

"Right. What was I thinking. Of course not. Seven?"

"Seven-thirty," the detective countered without looking up.

John clenched his jaw and walked briskly out the door, feeling a stirring of nerves. What if Sherlock failed to turn up? It would be like him to forget plans when he was working. He did it more often than not. John certainly had not expected his partner to think anything of the date, especially as they had never marked it before. _Just please, Sherlock, don't forget dinner. Not tonight._

The doctor's pace slowed as he approached the restaurant at half seven, confusion settling over his features. Aside from the fairy lights in the window, the whole place appeared dark. A hand-written sign on the door read: "29 January, Closed for Private Party." _That can't be right._ He had called ahead to secure their regular table and ensure that no particular fuss be made over them. There would probably be tiramisu on the house, but anything beyond that and Sherlock would only be annoyed. He might even be embarrassed if it was brought to his attention exactly why John was so keen to have dinner together that evening.

Pretending it was any other night from the comfort of their window booth was fine by John, but not doing anything was somehow overwhelmingly sad. Not seeing another option, however, he removed his phone from his pocket and began to text Sherlock not to come, when the door behind him swung open.

"Doctor Watson! Right on time, as usual! Come in, let me take your coat."

"A-Angelo?" John stammered, handing over his jacket. He had been mistaken in thinking the room was dark; one small candle was lit on every table, and the soft, oddly familiar sound of a violin could be heard through the speakers. "Did you…? I though we talked about this, that if we made a big deal of it, Sherlock would – "

"Would what, John?" asked a rich baritone behind him. John turned swiftly back toward the door. Freshly cut raven curls, pale grey shirt, black suit. One hand resting in a coat pocket, the other holding…

"An origami rose?"

"Yes, well, I considered a lotus, but…" Sherlock smirked.

The older man was speechless as Angelo helped Sherlock out of this overcoat, gesturing to their table and the waiting bottle of John's favorite wine. _How did he… I can't believe… It's even the same shirt._

"Men like me don't have many occasions worth celebrating," Sherlock offered by way of explanation. He lifted his glass, his eyes searching John's for validation. "In fact… I've just got one. Happy Anniversary."

John took his hand across the table and nodded, then enjoyed a long sip of wine, hoping the reflection of the candles in his glass hid the tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

* * *

Sherlock looked at the newspaper over John's shoulder as he crossed to his own chair.

"A prairie dog? Really, John?"

"Groundhog."

"What's the difference." Sherlock waved a hand vaguely in the air.

"Well, a groundhog is… I think it's a woodchuck, and it's larger and has – "

"It was not actually a question, John."

"Oh. Right. Well. It's some American holiday, where they –"

"The Americans have a holiday for prairie dogs?"

"Groundhogs. And it's not _for_ them, it's – "

"But it is called 'Groundhog's Day,' it is not?"

"Will you shut up and listen!"

Sherlock blinked innocently and took a sip of his tea. John folded the paper roughly in his lap and shook his head before continuing.

"There's this groundhog, a famous one with some weird name, and every year they have a big celebration and pull him out of his burrow or something. He's supposed to be able to predict the weather. If he sees his shadow," John referred back to the article, "if he sees his shadow, there will be six more weeks of winter."

"Bizarre." Stretching out his bare toes in front of the fire, the detective seemed to contemplate this information for a moment. "So what happened this year?"

"It says… no shadow. This year spring will come early."

While John moved on to the sports section, Sherlock sipped his tea and considered his blogger. Then he turned his gaze to the dancing flames behind the grate, and laughed silently at his own surprising thoughts. _I hope the prairie dog is right._


	12. Valentine's Day

"John, this is a commercial district. There hasn't been a battle here since… well, possibly ever."

"Not a real battle, The Battle of Canary Wharf, against the Cybermen and – "

"The what?" Sherlock asked, collecting two hot chocolates from the bar and handing the smaller one to his companion. "Wait… is this from that absurd show, Doctor Strange?"

"Doctor Who."

"Whatever." Sherlock sipped his cocoa, walking absently toward the edge of the ice rink and furrowing his brow. "Then what's Doctor Strange?"

You are, John thought, shaking his head. They leaned on the rail, watching the skaters. It was mostly families, but there were also a considerable number of cheerful couples holding hands. "Nevermind that. Fancy a go?"

"I will assume that was a failed attempt at humor, John."

"Fine." The doctor hunched forward on his elbows, trying not to be disappointed. He hadn't really expected Sherlock to say yes, but it would have been nice, especially considering –

"We would like to offer our heartfelt congratulations," the loudspeaker boomed over the sappy pop music, "to Craig and Danielle, on their engagement!" The crowd began to applaud as a young couple in the center of the rink kissed.

Sherlock turned, ready to explain exactly why the pair would never make it to the altar, when the words caught in his throat. John was staring straight ahead, his lower lip trembling almost imperceptibly, a look of defeat clouding the deep blue of his eyes. The detective inhaled, but before he could decide how to proceed, John swallowed hard and walked away.

A couple got engaged. Despite the distasteful public display, it was rather to be expected; it is Valentine's Day. And John has me now, he can't still be upset about his own failed marriage. After all, that's been over and done with since last –

"Oh." Sherlock tossed his paper cup in the nearest bin and chased after his blogger, one gloved fist clenching and unclenching nervously in his coat pocket.

* * *

They walked silently to the small park nearby, the doctor's face unreadable as Sherlock searched his mind desperately for something to say.

"John, I…"

The older man turned suddenly, fighting the anxiety coursing through his veins with squared shoulders and a raised chin. He needs to know. It's time.

"Sherlock, there's something I need to say to you. A few years ago, I met the person I wanted to dedicate my life to, the person I wanted to share my future with. At the time, I was certain I would never want that with anyone else. As it turns out…"

He breathed out slowly in the cold air, hands fidgeting in his pockets. He forced himself to look his partner in the eye. "I was right. There has only been one person I have wanted to give all of myself to, to grow old with, and there will only ever be one. God, Sherlock, I'm sorry for not telling you this sooner. I'm so sorry..."

John's left fist pressed against his mouth as he steeled himself for what he had to say next.

"Sherlock…" he opened his palm, the pale gold glinting as it caught the winter sun, "Sherlock. Will you please marry me?"

Sherlock froze. Will you change your mind when you know the truth?

"John, I… there's something you need to know. I never intended for you to find out. I… knew you would search the flat, so I kept it here."

As he reached into his right Belstaff pocket, John's eyes grew wide. No. This wasn't possible. All of the times John had seen that motion over the past year came flooding into his mind. It was just a nervous tic… no. No no no.

Sherlock slowly extracted the black box and handed it to his friend. John didn't realize he was crying until a tear splashed onto the object inside.

"How long?" He choked out.

"I never… it was just a reminder, John, I – "

"Sherlock. How long?"

"The first day…" he looked into the distance, struggling to maintain his calm. "The day you moved back home."

John stared disbelievingly into the box and carefully lifted it out. Just a reminder… but he had even had it engraved: Always Two.

Their tears mingled as John pressed their lips together, pouring everything into the kiss that he couldn't find words to express, and laughing at the shock on Sherlock's face when they finally pulled apart.

"You… don't… mind?"

"Mind? Sherlock!" A brilliant smile lit John's face just as the younger man's mobile buzzed.

"What." He snapped into the phone, the momentary look of annoyance giving way quickly to one of intrigue. "Oh, well, I don't…" He raised an eyebrow at John, who chuckled and nodded his ascent. "Text me the address."

"You never answered my question."

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock replied, slipping the gold band onto his right hand and moving briskly toward the street to hail a taxi. He'd move it to his left after the ceremony. John jogged to catch up, distracted by the silver ring shining on his own finger.

"Oh, please do give me some credit," Sherlock shouted over his shoulder. "It's platinum."

* * *

John Watson was a romantic. That made this moment standing on the doorstep to 221B Baker Street, admiring the thin band of metal on his hand as he unlocked the door, all the more perfect. Valentine's Day. A day he would never have to spend alone again. Fool, he now thought to himself. Pathetic, romantic, insanely lucky fool.

Lestrade's phone call had brought a day of murder, mayhem, and back alley chases; exactly how one would expect to celebrate an engagement to Sherlock Holmes. Returning home late and exhausted, John had volunteered to pick up dinner, which he placed on the kitchen table before slipping down the hall to their bedroom.

Captain Watson licked his lips at the sight of the purple satin. We're starting to think alike, he realized, as he laid the box of gourmet truffles in the center of the bed. He ventured into the flat to find his fiancé, but stopped on the threshold to the sitting room. Stretched out on the sofa, dress shirt half unbuttoned, was the soundly sleeping form of the world's only consulting detective. John stood, admiring the effect of the roaring fire on porcelain skin.

Yes, John was "not gay." And yes, John was in love with a man. And he should have known (how had they not known?) that this ending was inevitable. Once it came out, he knew he was truly his partner. Soon a priest, an official document, a ceremony before friends and family would reflect the reality in his heart. Like Sherlock's unwavering resolve to recover, this bit of magic was indeed what it seemed. Besides being a doctor, a soldier, a blogger – John was a Watson. And as of early this spring, after signing one more official document, Sherlock would be too.

John knelt by the mantle, the pain in his hip noticeably absent, and added another log to the fire. He finally understood how it could feel so much like home after everything that had passed. Then without thinking, without considering his movements, he stepped into the center of room and sat down. In his chair.


End file.
